


Love: A Blessing, A Burden

by Flammablepie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Declarations Of Love, F/M, Light Angst, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-Season/Series 04, Post-The Final Problem, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 23:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9350270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flammablepie/pseuds/Flammablepie
Summary: He looks for her. He's always looking for her.Sherlock returns to London after the events of The Final Problem to explain things to Molly.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first Sherlolly fic. I've been dying to write something like this ever since the finale. I do hope they're in character. I wrote it in one sitting and it's not proofread by anyone else so if you find any grammatical errors please do tell me!
> 
> Enjoy!

He looks for her.

When he returns to London, the first thing he does is look for her. There’s nothing left for him at Baker Street, and even though John offered to let him recuperate at his house all Sherlock can think of is Molly.

So he looks for her.

He goes to her flat. With trembling hands, he knocks loudly on her door, silently hoping, wishing, that she’ll drag herself out of her bed at this ungodly hour to open it for him. He takes a steadying breath, clenching and unclenching his fist in a feeble attempt to calm the swirling storm of emotions in him. He hears significantly less shuffling on the carpet and frowns, wondering why she’s still awake, and in the living room, so late at night.

Molly tiptoes, glancing through the peephole before sighing exasperatedly. She doesn’t want to see him. She’s not ready to face him yet. Her chest still aches as though the three words she whispered to him ripped apart everything inside her on their way up. Her eyes are heavy with the weight of all her shed tears, and her lips are stained with the wine she was drinking.

“Molly,” his deep voice rings out from the other side of the door, “Molly, I know you’re in there I just… Please. J-Just let me explain,”

She hears the shake in his voice, and remembering that he said he was on a case, almost yanks the door open to find out what’s wrong before stopping herself. If he wasn’t dead or dying then whatever he wants to say can wait for another day. Another day when she’s not drowning under her emotions. Another day when she’s not burdened with the weight of her love.

“Molly,” he tries again, “ _Please,_ ”

The honest desperation in his voice is her undoing and she opens the door slowly, not caring about how she looks in her rumpled pyjamas.

“Molly,” he breathes in relief at the sight of her.

He looks terrible. But even worse than that, he looks vulnerable, just like the day he came to her to ask her to help kill him. The sight of him widens the gaping hole in her chest.

“What is it, Sherlock?” she murmurs, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

“I need to explain why…” he inhales, “Why I had to… ask… that of you. Please,”

She considers him for a moment before deflating slightly, stepping aside to let him in.

“But listen Sherlock,” she looks right into his eyes, gaze hardening, “If, when, I say the word, you _get out of my flat_. Without protesting. Without questions. In fact, just don’t say anything. Understand?”

“Yes,” he nods, “I understand,”

She turns away from him, making her way to the small sofa in her living room as he trails after her. He shrugs off his coat, folding it carefully before sinking into the plush cushions, his body already relaxing a little bit at the comfort. Molly wrinkles her nose at his slightly musky scent, something he doesn’t fail to notice.

“Sorry,” he grimaces, “It’s been a… long day,”

“Well then,” she demands as she sits, “Explain,”

He tells her about the last couple of days. About Sherrinford. About his sister. It’s only when he reaches the part about the coffin that his voice starts to crack.

“There was,” he clears his throat, “A coffin. A coffin meant for you. _Your_ coffin,”

She blinks rapidly, trying to take everything in.

“My sister she said there were explosives in your flat,”

She shrinks back into the cushions a little, glancing around anxiously.

“There actually wasn’t in the end but… There was a timer. Three minutes. And the release code was…”

He swallows. He can’t say it. He can’t say it. He can’t say it. He can’t push those words past his lips. Not casually. Not to her. Not anymore.

“Molly, I…” he screws his eyes shut, “I never meant to hurt you. I never would have… I can never...”

He pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath.

“It was painful. To hear you like that. To see you like that. Because of me,”

The entire time in the room with the coffin, his head was full of apologies for Molly. Molly. Dear, sweet, clever Molly with her big heart and bright smile. Molly who helped him time and time again without demanding anything in return. Molly who stood up to him and kept him in his place. Molly who’s life was in danger because of him. _Because of him_.

He gets up to pace, anger and anxiousness rising in him.

“When I found out that she was bluffing I… It… I lost it,”

She looks up at him, slightly alarmed.

At that time, other than anger he felt guilt. Guilt for hurting her again. Guilt for failing to keep her safe. Guilt for damaging their relationship, possibly forever. But even more so than that he felt the burden of his love. The first time he said it to her was excruciating, the knowledge of what their entire conversation was doing to her already tearing him apart. But the second time, god, nothing could compare to the second time he said it. When he realised that he loved her. That he _loved_ her.

It was as though a huge weight was placed on his chest, knowing that his love for her, the love he was so blind to, put her in the crosshairs. Knowing that she was, is, his achilles heel. Knowing that anything that hurt her would ultimately hurt him. His heart was torn open when he breathed those words to her and he didn’t have the strength to close it anymore. When he placed the lid on the coffin, caressing the wood with those three wretched words gleaming at him, it felt as if he was burying the shattered remains of their relationship. Saying goodbye to her.

And then that’s when the frustration and anger ripped through him. With each punch and smash of the wood he cursed it. Love. With John. Mary. Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft. Rosie. Molly. He hated how it hurt him. And how it hurt them. But by the time he was finished decimating the coffin, sitting on the floor exhausted, he was resigned to it. And he finally, fully understood the immense strength it takes for someone to love.

“Molly I,” he looks down into her eyes, “I… I meant what I said,”

“What?” she frowns, confused.

“I meant it when I said that I… I lo...”

God, he can hardly say it now.

“I love you,” he breathes.

Molly just stares at him blankly, so he repeats it again, a little louder.

“Molly, I… I love you,”

She knows there is no lie in his voice and in his eyes. This is Sherlock, laying his heart bare and raw before her, and it feels as though she’s been punched in the gut. She can’t quite cope with it all, his words sinking into her. So she starts crying.

“Molly?” he immediately goes to her side, panic evident in his voice, “Molly did I do something wrong?”

She shakes her head vigorously, wiping the tears cascading down her cheek with the sleeve of her pyjamas. Love. When did she start loving him? Initially, years ago, she was simply infatuated. Then she fell for him. And somewhere along the way it turned into love. Simple, plain, love. The fact that he didn’t reciprocate it before never cheapened her as a person. It was something she felt with honesty, with happiness, and without shame. She understood its weight, its consequences, its price. She learned that long ago with the death of her father, but with Sherlock it’s slightly different. It was always different with him. And while she’s aware of the cost of loving someone, she’s not fully prepared for the weight of someone loving her. Someone who’s not family. Someone who’s not obligated to love her. And she’s terrified.

Sherlock tentatively places an arm around her quivering shoulders and she instantly curls into him, weeping into his shirt. After a few minutes, her strangled sobs turn into strangled laughs, as the fear melts into happiness, and he pulls back slightly to look at her.

“Are you okay, Molly? I didn’t mean to… hurt you again,”

“Yeah,” she gives him a watery smile, “Yeah I’m okay,”

“I know I’ve hurt you in the past, I was terrible, but I’m learning. I’m trying,”

He feels desperation claw at his chest again as she shifts away slightly to wipe her nose with her sleeve. She knew that he loved her but would she accept it? Would she accept him? Him. A flawed, broken man. A human man.

“Molly,” he begins slowly, gazing into her eyes, “Please,”

She sees it in his eyes. She sees the love in them. She sees the love she has for him in them.

“Say it again,” she murmurs gently.

Not a command, but a request.

“I love you,” he exhales.

A smile tugs at the corner of her lips.

“Thank you,” she beams, eyelids fluttering shut before resting her forehead against his, gently placing her palm against his chest.

“I’m not very good at saying it but… I’ll say it. For you. As many times as you want,” he mutters, raising his hand to cup her cheek.

They stay like that for a few moments, locked in each other’s embrace, just breathing.

“Sherlock,” she mumbles, drawing away a little.

“Hm?” he hums, meeting her gaze.

Unlike the last one she whispered to him over the phone, her hands cupped over the microphone as though she was telling a secret, she says it loud, clear, and without hesitation.

“I love you,”


End file.
